Chasing Darkness (39 page)

Mrs.
Allen didn’t respond. Instead, she knelt down to Randy’s level and started to
speak with her hands.

Nick’s
phone rang, but he ignored it, watching instead as Randy picked up the picture
again and pointed to something, then set it down in order to explain to his
mother. The picture was the one Nick had just gotten of the baseball team he
coached. He couldn’t figure out what had interested Randy. Maybe he wanted to
learn to play baseball.

Mrs.
Allen shook her head and moved her hands again.

Randy
nodded and spoke back. His mouth moved, and he made harsh sounds when he
signed, as though he was trying to make the words come out of his mouth.

Nick
looked over at the little girl, unsure whether to excuse himself. She sat in
her chair watching them, and for a moment he wondered if she was mute. He
turned his attention to the mother and son again.

Finally
Mrs. Allen picked up the picture and waved a finger in the air.

Randy
pointed to a face.

Mrs.
Allen looked up at Nick.

“What
is it?”

“He
sees the man.”

Nick
frowned. “What man?”

“The
one on the bike.”

“Someone
who looks like him?” Nick asked.

She
shook her head.

Randy
was looking back and forth from one of them to the other. When Nick looked at
him, he pointed again.

“No,
he sees
the
man.”

Nick
turned the picture so he could see it. “Which one?”

She
nodded to Randy, and he pointed to a kid in the back row.

Nick
leaned in and studied the face at the end of the little boy’s finger. It was
Rob Chase. He felt a strange sucking sensation in his throat as he tried to
speak. “He has to mean the man looks like him.”

Mrs.
Allen spoke again to Randy.

“He’s
sure,” the little girl said, and Nick started at the sound of her voice. “He
says it’s
that
kid. The blond kid,” the girl repeated.

Nick
opened his mouth but found he couldn’t think of a thing to say.

Just
then, McCafferty appeared at his door. “Sam Chase is here. She says it’s
urgent.”

“I’m
in the midd—” Nick started to say.

“It’s
about Rob Chase,” McCafferty added.

Nick
felt as though he’d been kicked in the head. The gum wrapper, Sam’s flashlight,
now the I.D. He saw the pieces fall into place, and yet it was all wrong. It
couldn’t be Rob. Sam’s whole life was riding on this, and suddenly he felt he
was right there with her. If Rob was guilty . . . He shook his
head. He couldn’t even fathom it.

Whitney
Allen kicked her feet against the tall wooden chair while her mother watched
the people come into the courtroom. Randy was sitting on the other side of her
mother, making low groaning noises like he did when he was bothered. Whitney
wished her mother would tell him to shut up. She herself was too far away to
punch him or sign for him to stop. Instead, she settled into the rhythmic
clack
clack
of her scuffed patent leather shoes against the legs of the chair.
From their third-row seats, Whitney studied the people in the room. Most of
them were old and wore dark colors. She thought the people in court on TV never
looked like that. Maybe this was a special court for killers and so everyone
wore black. She looked down at her frilly pink dress and smoothed it over her
knees. She stood out like a candy cane. She wished she got to be the one who
got to talk to the lawyer. Randy always got to do all the fun stuff.

Whitney
saw a blond woman come in. That was another thing there weren’t a lot of—girls.
Except for that lady, Whitney, and her mom, there were only about two or three
others that she saw. One of them was a woman sitting at the back of the room
with a notepad in her hands. The woman sat with her back perfectly straight.
Her hair was pulled up so tight, Whitney wondered if it hurt. Sitting herself
up straighter, Whitney put her hands in her lap, wishing she had a notepad.

“Sit
forward,” her mother snapped.

Whitney
looked at the blond lady again. She sat down in the front row and started
talking to a black man next to her. She looked sad. Whitney wondered if maybe
she was one of the dead person’s friends.

She
had freckles like Whitney’s but lighter, and Whitney thought how pretty she
was. She wished she had blond hair like that. The lady was dressed in a black
jacket and pants and a gray sweater. Whitney thought she looked sort of like a
movie star. She couldn’t remember the movie star’s name, but she played in a
funny movie—something about not sleeping in a city. Whitney had seen part of it
over at Jodie’s house. Jodie had cable. But her mom had caught them and changed
the channel. Whitney didn’t know what the big deal was. She’d seen one kiss and
that was it. It wasn’t even as good as the ones she’d seen watching Jodie’s
older brother with his girlfriend.

Anyway,
this lady looked like that one. Only, she wasn’t wearing any makeup. When
grown-ups were sad, sometimes they didn’t wear makeup. She remembered that from
when her mom and dad split up. Her mom had been too sad to wear makeup. She
said every time she put it on, she ended up crying it all off. Thankfully, her
mom didn’t cry anymore. Now she could wear her makeup just fine.

A
man in a black robe came into the courtroom and everybody stood up. Whitney was
going to stay seated, but her mother grabbed her by the arm and yanked her up.
She put her hand on her heart and waited for them to start saying the national
anthem or the pledge of ’legience. She saw the flag in the corner, but no one
spoke for a minute. Then, the guy in the robe banged his hammer on his desk and
everyone sat. Whitney was surprised no one got mad. When she hit things on her
desk at school, the teacher made her sit in the corner. They hadn’t said the
anthem, either.

She
thought that guy had a good job and wondered if the black robe came in other
colors. It would be fun if it was pink.

People
started talking and Whitney got bored. She looked around the room again, but no
one was moving. Everyone was listening to the robe man talking. Whitney tossed
her head back and stared at the ceiling. It was white and plain and very
boring. She tugged at her hair, sitting back against the chair and feeling it
pull as she lowered her head. When it was loose around her shoulders, she did
it again. She’d heard if you pulled on it, it would grow faster.

Her
mother grabbed her arm and started to stand. “I’m going up there with Randy.
Don’t move.”

Whitney
faced forward, her hands at her sides. Her mother moved out of the row, pushing
Randy in front of her. When she reached the end of it, she looked back and
pointed at Whitney. Whitney still didn’t move, but she noticed people staring
at her. When her mother turned her back, Whitney put her hands under her legs
and smiled shyly. She heard someone laugh.

Then
it was really quiet and everyone was watching Randy. It got really boring while
Randy was explaining. There was a man sitting up by the judge and translating
for him, but she could barely see him. And she couldn’t see Randy or the
translator from where she was sitting. And she couldn’t move. The only part she
understood was when Randy pointed to the man sitting behind the table up front.
He was the killer. Whitney stood and crept to the aisle to get a good look at
him. She was about to go even closer when she caught sight of her mother. She
had those big lines between her eyes, which meant she was real mad, and she was
pointing at the chair. Whitney went back to her chair and sat down.

The
guy at the table wasn’t even really a man. He looked like her cousin, Alex.
Alex was eighteen. She thought that was old, but her stepdad said it was real
young. He also said you don’t know your head from your zipper at eighteen. She
didn’t know what that meant because she already knew her head from her zipper.
Her stepdad sometimes said weird stuff like that.

When
Randy was done, an old man sat in his chair. Before the old man said anything,
a man gave him a book and he put one hand on the book and the other in the air
and said something. Whitney wondered if Randy had gotten to touch the book too.
She hadn’t seen him do it. Boy, she wished she’d been the one to see the
killer. Ever since Randy got home, everyone was talking about what a hero he
was. But it was Whitney that told them what Randy saw. She sighed deeply. A man
in front of her turned around and gave her a stare and she snapped her mouth
shut and looked back at the man who was talking. He kept talking about the
’ceased. Whitney didn’t know what that meant, but she knew the ’ceased wasn’t
there, because they kept showing her picture.

The
man in the special chair said he saw the boy Randy saw too, but he saw him by a
lady named Eva’s house, and then he ran down the street. Whitney didn’t think
that sounded bad, but the man in the robe looked like it was. Then the man in
the gray suit asked questions, and the old man pointed to the guy Randy had seen.

Whitney
thought the man in the robe should have been asking the questions, but maybe he
decided to let someone else do it. From what she could figure out, he was sort
of like Santa Claus, only you didn’t sit on his lap. Instead, you sat in a
chair next to him and told him your story. Then, if you did it right, he let
you go. The man in the robe had dark hair that was almost all gone on the top
of his head, and he didn’t look at all like Santa Claus.

Whitney’s
mother whispered to her from the aisle, and Whitney shook her head. She wanted
to stay and listen. But her mother came over and yanked her off her chair. It
hurt but she didn’t yell. People were looking at her again, but she stared at
her shoes as she and her mother and Randy left the room. As soon as they were
in the hall, her mother turned to Randy and started telling him how great he
was. Whitney stood behind her and rolled her eyes. When he looked at her, she
made a gagging face. She wished she’d never opened her mouth about her dumb
brother being outside that day.

She
spun around in her dress while her mother talked to Randy. She pictured a whole
group of people watching her dance and applauding. Then she would be the famous
one.

“Whitney.”

Whitney
saw her mother and Randy down the hall.

“Come
on,” her mother ordered.

Whitney
ran to catch up, her patent-leather shoes slapping against the fancy floor.

The
backseat was cold, and he shivered in his T-shirt, trying to stay warm. His
father had his window rolled down, and the cold air blasted against him. He
pulled his arms inside the shirt and held them against his chest. Next to him,
the baby slept. And next to her, his brother. Neither of them looked cold.
Maybe only he was cold.

His
father was grumbling to himself, but the wind and the metal ticking sound of
the car made it impossible to understand the words. He pulled his knees up to
his chest and dropped his head to his lap. They would be home within an hour.
He could survive another hour. It wasn’t that cold. Shivering again, he raised
his head and looked around the backseat for something to cover himself with,
but the baby’s blanket was the only thing back there except his dad’s cooler.

His
father reached back, his hand feeling for the top of the cooler and lifting it
to reach for another beer. He brought it forward, dripping, and handed it to
his mom to open. She crossed her arms and shook her head.

“Open
it,” he snapped.

She
looked at him and started to shake her head again when something stopped her.
From the backseat, he couldn’t see his father’s face, but he could visualize
the stare. Eyes narrowed, thick nose flared. It was alook that warned everyone
in the house not to screw with him.

He
shivered again, harder this time. It was probably already too late. His dad had
already had too much to drink. Nine beers since they got on the road. Once his
dad got that look, he was already wound up and mean.

When
they got home, they were in for a beating. Mom first because she had started
it. Then him next. Once or twice, he’d been last. By then, his dad was always
tired and too drunk to hit as hard. That was if he was lucky. But his dad never
missed anyone. Luck didn’t last that long in his house.

Usually
he was first. His brother was smaller. And the baby was only little. She wasn’t
really a baby anymore, but that’s what everyone called her. Not that it
mattered to his dad. He’d been beating them up since he was four. His dad even
hit his sister from time to time when she cried too much. She barely cried at
all, but even that was too much to his dad.

When
it was over and his father had passed out, he always took care of his mother.
He got the rubbing alcohol from the bathroom and cleaned the wounds and put
bandages on. He wrapped her wrist the time it got broken. And when his father
had taken her hand and punched it through the window, he had picked out the
slivers of glass with a pair of tweezers.

His
brother mostly hid. He’d even gotten out of a few beatings that way. But it
meant his dad got him and his mother even worse. His mother looked at his
brother in a weird way he didn’t understand. Like she was real sad or
something.

His
father’s head bobbed slightly, and he could see his mother grip her seat. She
didn’t say anything. He tucked his head back in his shirt and squeezed his eyes
closed.

“You
cold, honey?” she turned around to ask him.

He
glanced at the back of his father’s head, shook his head quickly, and tucked
his head back down.

“Shut
your window,” she told his father. “The kids are cold.”